The Book of Secrets (37 page)

The men looked at each other again and even Neil, who had seemed intent on defending her, was wary.

‘So where is this baby now? Gone too?’ asked William. Even as he spoke, his face puckered oddly.

‘Maria,’ said Christie behind her.

She wheeled around, almost as surprised as they were, though more because she had not expected Christie to have learned her name so quickly.

Maria opened her arms and the little girl, trailing a blanket, rushed into them, afraid of the men standing across the doorway.

‘There were three people, and this child,’ said Maria evenly, in command of herself again. ‘I saw the father and the grandfather dead. The mother was alive and should have recovered with nursing.’ She explained how Hoana and she had thought the baby might be ill too, and how she had insisted on her taking Christie.

‘What can you expect, these Maoris,’ the third man said. ‘They run off and leave their children with anyone who’ll take them.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Maria. ‘She’s coming for her.’

‘Did she tell you she was scarpering in the night?’

‘I — I don’t know about that. She said her husband’s family would come. They must have taken their dead.’

‘I’ve no idea who’ll bury them,’ said William morosely. ‘Milan was the gravedigger.’

‘Who’s going to bury anyone at this rate?’ said the third man. He turned to Maria. ‘They’re laid out in rows in the churches all over the country, waiting to be buried.’

‘Shall we take the child into the centre for you?’ asked Neil, meaning to the village.

‘No thank you,’ said Maria after a moment’s hesitation. ‘No, I
know the mother will come. It will be all right.’

‘Well … my wife could care for the little girl for a few days until the mother … until she arrives,’ said Neil.

As Maria shook her head, Christie tucked her face into her neck. Oh such sweet pressure, such gentle breath against my throat, sang her heart. I must not let them take her away. I must be calm and restrained as if I am simply helping out, I should not let them see that it is of any importance. ‘I can manage, I assure you. I may need some extra things sent from the store, that’s all.’

‘I’ll see to it. Just put what you want in your list at the gate,’ said Neil. He looked at the two of them holding onto each other. ‘She seems to like you.’

William and the third man were already heading for their horses. When William had mounted, he looked down at Maria. His tone was still unfriendly. ‘Good luck, you’ll need it. She’s probably halfway to Auckland this morning.’

Maria’s heart turned over. She hoped Hoana was well and safe. But she also hoped that as the men had predicted, she would never return.

She smiled over Christie’s head at Neil. ‘Thank you for your help cousin,’ she said, and hoped as she closed the door that her voice had sounded suitably under control.

After a year and a half had passed Christie could talk in full sentences about a variety of subjects, count to five and draw pictures of birds and flowers.

Sometimes she called Maria by name, other times she forgot and called her Mum. She did not ask what had become of her mother and seemed content for the days to slide past, allowing things to happen without question. If she was lonely she did not show it. Soon Maria would have to think about school. She did not know how schools operated these days but she saw children walk past along the dusty red road with satchels on their backs and return in the afternoon. She assumed that was where they were going. Some of the children looked not much older than Christie. It was too young, she was sure, and dreaded the time when she would have to part with her for even a small part of each day.

At her gate a variety of goods had started arriving, some that she would not have thought to order herself. There was a doll one day
and an abacus another, a tin of malt in the groceries and occasionally a bag of sweets. She sent a note back the first time or two, asking how much she owed. By return, a note said that the account was paid in full.

In the second spring four yards of gingham arrived, and three colours of ribbon. She was pleased with these items, and made the gingham into two small frocks. Christie was delighted and stood for a long time admiring herself. Maria combed out her hair which fell in long curls past her shoulders now, and tied blue ribbon in it. It is a shame that no one can see her but me, she thought. It would be more than school that she would have to consider. Soon, for the child’s sake, she would have to return to the world.

This was hard to imagine after so many years of solitude. Not that the last year had felt like that. Still, she wanted to take one thing at a time. It seemed foolish to rush. She had considered going with Christie on walks away from the house, but there was plenty of space around them. It was safer close to home. They could sit on the riverbank and watch the ducks swimming, or the eels which flicked this way and that just below the surface. There were birds to observe, which afforded Christie constant pleasure, and there was the garden to be looked after. Christie laboured behind Maria with a small wooden pail which Maria had made for her, carrying piles of dirt from one place to another or, more helpfully, collecting weeds and placing them on the pile by the fence. On wet days she stayed inside and made shapes out of dough left over from Maria’s cooking. They put them in the oven with the bread, and ate them with the other food when it came out.

Christie’s only difficulty was in sleeping on her own at night. It seemed to hold some special terror for her which did not arise if she shared Maria’s bed. Although Maria encouraged her to sleep on her own, Christie was adamant that she could not, and secretly Maria was happy with the arrangement. The child would settle so long as she had Maria’s promise that she would soon come up the stairs and get in beside her.

One evening in the high summer of that second year, as Maria was tucking the covers round Christie, she found herself saying, ‘Oh my darling, I love you so much.’

The child looked at her gravely. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I love you so much too, Maria.’

Downstairs Maria took up some knitting. She must plan ahead for Christie’s winter clothes and think about getting her shoes. The air was very still; she thought she heard children laughing. She went to the window. Without a doubt it was laughing that she could hear, and singing too. It came from behind the house and away in the direction of the sea, towards the cottage where she had found the child. She had not thought of the cottage for months.

The singing went on late into the night and she stood listening for a long time until she heard Christie calling out. She looked up and saw the child standing sound asleep at the top of the stairs.

‘Stay there, Christie, don’t move,’ she cried. Her feet were winged. She was two steps away when Christie took the first step forward.

Lying beside her later Maria felt herself shivering. Such a close escape! The harm that might have befallen her was too terrible to contemplate.

The sound of the singing was still in her head as she went to sleep. In the middle of the night she woke, sweating and fearful.

In the morning when they were dressed she saw many people advancing over the paddock towards the house. They were dark people, and they were led by a woman who limped.

It was Hoana.

Maria stood in her garden waiting for them. Christie tugged at her skirts. ‘Who are they?’ she asked.

‘It is your mother come for you,’ said Maria.

‘You are my mother.’

‘For a while, my darling, I was for a little while.’

‘Must I go with her?’

The people had come closer. Some of them looked at Maria with suspicion but Hoana, despite her awkward gait, walked steadily on. The garden was full of light.

‘You’ll be happy when you’re with her,’ said Maria.

‘I’m happy now,’ said the child.

‘You’ll be happy again,’ said Maria.

She took Christie’s hand and began walking towards Hoana. The two women stopped on either side of the gate. Hoana’s friends fell in behind her. They were still, but tension rippled among them.

‘I had pleurisy, they thought I might die,’ said Hoana. ‘I was taken away up north to my own family until I got better.’

‘I understand,’ said Maria. Christie’s hand tightened in hers. This parting must be swift. ‘I’ll get Christie’s things. She has some clothes and toys.’

‘We’ll pay you for them,’ said Hoana.

‘Very well,’ Maria answered. She could say: It is better as a business deal, that will make you feel better about taking her away. But it seemed implicit in her acceptance. Hoana counted out five battered pound notes into her hand.

‘Is that enough?’ Hoana asked.

‘It will do,’ said Maria, as if she was considering the amount. ‘Christie, wait with your mother and talk to her, meet your family.’

Inside, she took an old patchwork bag that had belonged to her own mother, hoping that it would hold as she stuffed Christie’s clothes into it. There did not look to be so many after all. Then she remembered that she must collect up the papers Hoana had given her at the cottage.

Suddenly her legs would not support her. She sat down on the bed and looked out the window, down to the gathering in the paddock. Christie was being passed from one person to another, and already she could see that she was laughing. Even if Maria was in a hurry, they were not.

Getting to her feet and clutching the bed-head, she made her way to the drawers at the bottom of the dresser and felt around beneath her mother’s clothes. Books, the journals, letters, Christie’s papers.

She crouched on the floor, rocking on her heels. She had never opened the papers. Once or twice she had thought that she should, and in April she nearly had, to find out the exact date of Christie’s birthday. But to look at them would have been to remind herself of Christie’s other life which she had not wanted to consider. Instead, she had made up a birthday for her, announcing it one morning. It had been a special day of treats.

Now her hand hesitated over the papers.

But she knew that it was not only the papers.

She knew that there were secrets which it would be easier not to know. Voices were everywhere in the room now. Squatting there, her long skirts drawn up over her knees, she felt old again, and foolish. That she could have believed the child was hers! And yet were they not tied to each other?

It seemed now as if she had all the time in the world, and might never go down the stairs to the people below. There was something she could do, something she could find out. She opened not Christie’s papers first, but the letter Martha McWhirtle had written to her grandmother, Isabella.

Coromandel, March 1870